


A Sound Like Thunder

by Dustbunnygirl



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-07
Updated: 2008-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-14 08:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8006680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can’t be sure when it was you realized that the rhythm that’s been driving you all night was a single word run over and over inside your head. Just a name. One name. His name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sound Like Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> Title: A Sound Like Thunder  
> Author Name: dustbunnygirl  
> Fandom: Torchwood  
> Pairing: Jack/Ianto  
> Rating: NC17ish  
> Disclaimer: Torchwood and its handsome boys are owned by the BBC. This is all for fun and not the slightest bit of profit.  
> Word Count: 2,650  
> Author's Notes: This is what happens when plotbunnies and excessive flamenco music combine in my head and breed.  
> Betas: legal_padawan  
> Written for the Summer 2008 round of thestopwatch for laureen

It’s in your blood; this constant, dull, thrumming ache. Like the staccato of a handclap, the vibrato of a Spanish guitar, it pulses beneath your skin with its relentless rhythm. Won’t let you work, won’t let you eat, won’t let you sleep. It’s like a song you can’t forget, like a name on the tip of your tongue that your mind can’t conjure but won’t let you stop trying to drag out of the deep pit of memory either. 

The longer you try to ignore it the more incessant it becomes. You try to focus on the document open on the screen in front of you but the words blur. As your fingers try to wring coherence from the keys they keep coming back to the same words over and over, spelled out with sharp clicks enveloped in the throbbing rhythm moving through your veins. Want. Need. Desire is a taste, bitter and metallic on your tongue and you can’t will it away, can’t swallow past it or cover it up with strong coffee or stronger bourbon.

When you can’t deny it any more, can’t sit still for the desperation of it, you push away from your desk and head out into the damp Welsh night. The air is cool, but the heat radiating from your skin makes it feel thick and sultry as it settles around you. All the same, you pull the collar of your jacket up to shield your neck from the fine mist that’s been falling most of the day. Shove your hands deep into your pockets as you walk, frantic eyes searching the shadowed corners and dark alleyways for something – anything – to stop the ache.

You have to walk countless blocks to find what you’re looking for, past the gleaming perfection of the Millennium Centre, past brightly lit shops and tourists who haven’t convinced themselves yet to turn in for the night. Don’t stop walking until the buildings become older, covered in cracked brick and crumbling mortar and faded graffiti. Here, the shadows in the corners are deeper. Here, the alleys are nothing but darkness and warning and the thrill of the unknown. Every once in awhile you pass an abandoned building and a shape steps out of the shelter of the doorway, roughly dressed and watching you with soulless, empty eyes. Your heart wants to break for each and every one of them, but the ever-present hunger pulsing through your veins doesn’t give the organ the opportunity. 

Pity them later, it tells you as it quickens your steps and draws you past yet another desperate soul. Sate me first, then you can be human again.

What you’re looking for is standing against a crooked lamp post at the next corner. It’s all too casual a lean, shoulder braced against the swayed metal, ankles crossed in front of him. The glass surrounding the light above is shattered, taken out by a rock or a bullet or any number of things, and causes the lamp to cast harsh, anonymous shadows over his face, aided by the unkempt fall of dark hair across his forehead. His jeans are faded and torn at the knees. The shirt tucked into them used to be white; time and wear has left it nearer to gray now. But the leather jacket and boots look almost new, even if the overall affect makes him look like some out of place relic. Some young tough, some rebel in search of a cause, some matinee screen idol from half a century ago. A thin stream of gray smoke slips from where his lips should be and lazily curls its way toward the bare bulb overhead.

Perfect.

“Lost?” The single word is spoken around the cigarette but it’s still full of flat vowels and dull consonants and disinterest. 

“Not lost,” you say in reply, slowing heat-quickened steps to a slow, deliberate prowl. The man under the street lamp senses the change in the approach and straightens. You watch the cigarette fall to the street and the bright ember disappears under the crush of his boot.

“Looking for something, then?” When he speaks again, the disinterest is gone. In its place is sloppy seduction. “Then” is dripping with the leer the harsh shadows keep hidden.

“Someone,” you say, stopping a foot from your target. This close the shadows are ineffectual. You can see your potential conquest isn’t as young as you first thought. Oh, he’s handsome enough – beautiful, your brain supplies, but you push the sentimental adjective away – but he wears evidence of his years in a line here, in the cold reality reflected in his eyes. Such blue eyes. Such sad eyes...

“Your lucky night,” he offers in reply and smiles as he says it. Even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes it’s the widest smile you’ve ever seen. For a moment, staring at those two perfect rows of too many teeth, you feel like a guppy about to be swallowed whole by a great white shark. For a moment, you forget who is supposed to be the predator and who is the prey.

But just for a moment, long enough for a pause in the steady thrumming that’s been playing in your ears all night. As his tongue slides out from between those even teeth to wet his lips the rhythm starts again, relentless and sharp and it’s all you can do not to growl as you grab him and pull him forward by fistfuls of new leather. Your tongue follows the path his took a moment before, a rough, hot drag over his bottom lip, tasting nicotine and menthol. He groans as you take inventory of each of those teeth, painting every bicuspid and canine and molar with heat as you try to coax his mouth open. It’s not until your hand forgoes the leverage of its hold on his jacket to cup his cock through the too-worn denim that he gasps and his teeth part to let you in. 

There isn’t time for the petty details – names, which aren’t necessary; the wheres and whyfores of the transaction. Those take second place to the fact he’s stumbling back into the alley behind him, attached to you by joined lips and the hand massaging him through his jeans. You follow because this is what you’ve needed all night. This is what dragged you out of the office, what drove you so mad you ended up God knows where, half-hard with need and the promise of brick against skin and muffled moans raging against the quiet Cardiff night. You shove him against the alley wall, watch broken brick dig into the supple leather and a puff of breath rush past kiss-swollen lips. He’s staring at you through hooded eyes that can’t hide the bright hot want swirling within them. 

“How do you want me?” Asked with a roll of his hips that forces his dick harder into your hand. There’s too much humor in his tone, too much control implied in the twist of his oh so smug grin. A dark, tangled part of you wants to smack that grin right off his face. A less twisted part wants to brush it away with a kiss hard enough to bruise. You smile instead. You can tell just how unfriendly that smile is by the way his own grin slips as you take two steps back and pull your hand away.

“First,” you say as you loosen your tie and pull the deep red silk from around your neck, “I want you to be quiet.” His eyes are fixated on the flare of red in your hand as you step closer once again. Almost wary, that look, and with every good reason. Your hand reaches out, a light scrape of fingernails against his stomach that makes his breath hitch and his eyes close. The caress arcs upward over his ribs and sternum. When the caress turns into a harsh pinch of one of his nipples, he gives a sharp gasp that parts his lips just enough, puts him off his guard just long enough that you can shove the balled up silk into his mouth. 

“No, I said quiet.” Fingers search out the other nipple and repeat the gesture. You watch as he bites into the silk to keep from making another sound. “Good,” you say, letting the touch become a caress again. “Fast learner. I thought as much.” Both palms flatten against his chest and push him back into the wall with just enough force to let him know you want him to move. Then fingers curl into the aged cotton t-shirt and yank until the material splits in your hands. His eyes follow the tear from the neckline clear to the bottom hem. You can feel the heat of his stare burning a path straight to your cock.

“The next thing I want,” you say as you push the ruined shirt and jacket down his shoulders with a rough shove, “is for you not to touch. Not me, and definitely not yourself. Do you understand?” His head jerks quickly in the affirmative as your hands fall to your belt and slide it free from its loops. His eyes follow your hands and watch them handle the strap of leather far too expertly. “If you can’t keep your hands to yourself, I’ll have to find ways of making you behave.” The stare that was so intent on your hands a moment ago is boring into your eyes now. But not with fear. Those eyes are almost begging for you to decide he can’t be trusted to follow that order. You lay the belt over one of his bare shoulders instead to keep it close at hand – and to serve as a reminder.

“Turn around. Hands on the wall.” He turns as directed, palms and fingers flat against the brick. This time, you’re the one with the smug grin as he presses his cheek into the cold wall and arches his back to put his ass on better display. You slide a hand over the thin denim hugging one firm cheek and listen to him sigh. When your palm comes down as a firm smack against the same cheek, it’s a strangled yelp instead.

While the sting starts to fade you press up close against him, your covered chest to his bare back, your fingers following his waistband around to the snap and zip of his fly. He presses into your hand as you pop the button loose; sighs again when your knuckles brush against him as you part the zipper’s teeth. There’s nothing whatsoever beneath the denim but hot, hard skin and your own cock twitches as your hand slides over his. You grin against his shoulder as he bucks into your grip.

“Needy thing, aren’t you? Would almost think you were ready and waiting here for me.” You chuckle, a rush of air and need against his ear before your teeth clamp down on the lobe. He bucks again, only this time it’s to shove his ass against your groin. 

You take the hint, maybe only because at that second you want nothing more than to shove yourself so deep inside him that you lose track of your thoughts and your name and the desperate pulse that’s throbbing out a constant aching rhythm in your cock. Your free hand shoves at his jeans, shoves them past his hips and as far down as his legs as you can manage one handed. You can feel the heat of him through your trousers, smell the sharp tang of his arousal coming out of his every pore. Can taste it on his skin when you lap at the sweat mixed with mist beading between his shoulders. 

He trembles, every last inch of him, when your hand slides back up the inside of his thigh after his jeans are pushed away. Muffles out a groan around your tie as you roll his balls between your fingers. It’s your turn to moan, though, when you slide a finger over his hole and find it already slick. “Oh, you needy little whore,” you growl against his neck as you slide a finger inside. “You were waiting for me.” 

His head jerks in the affirmative again. His fingers curl into the unyielding brick as yours curls inside him, brushing his prostate and making him jerk into your hand. He mewls in desperation when you take both of your hands away long enough to fuss with your own button and zip. Tries to grind back against you as you push your trousers down far enough to free your cock and dig for the bottle of lube you left the office with. It only takes a matter of seconds to slick yourself, biting back a groan at your own touch and the wanton display of the arching, grinding creature in front of you. 

Your hand digs into his hip, steadying him. “If I let you, you’d just rub yourself off on the wall, wouldn’t you? Hmmm?” Your other hand lines you up, positions your cock at his entrance and waits. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m going to give you what you want. What you need...”

You don’t give the words time to truly sink in before you thrust forward, filling him in one hard push. His back arches, shoulders and neck taut as he howls into the makeshift gag and you give in to the driving rhythm that’s been singing through your blood all night. Pounding, relentless, it’s now a roar in your ears that only gets louder as you fill him again and again. There are no steps to this dance, no structure or rules, just the beat in your blood, the throb of white hot need searing through your veins that drives you on. 

He’s shoving back against you at every thrust, desperate and just as needy as you. But his hands are still on the brick, even if they’re gripping at it hard enough to break his own skin. “Do you need something?” Your breath is a bare, raspy chuckle against his skin. “Do you need this?” You wrap your fist around his cock and he manages to scream “Finally, you bastard!” around the gag somehow.

It doesn’t take long; two, three more thrusts and your hips jerk, rhythm falters, and the thrumming becomes a roar like thunder inside your head. And you can’t be sure, as your vision threatens to go black and your knees buckle, that you didn’t roar out loud yourself.

You can’t be sure when it was you realized that the rhythm that’s been driving you all night was a single word run over and over inside your head. Just a name. One name. His name.

Jack.

When you come back to your senses the world is quiet once again and you’re cradled in Jack’s arms on the pavement, leather between you both and the damp alley floor. He got your trousers and his pulled up at least, even if he hadn’t managed the zipper yet, and he’s wiping your hand clean with what’s left of his shirt. 

“Sorry,” you say, still half out of breath. “Got away from myself a little there.”

“Pretty sure that was the point,” is all Jack says. When he’s satisfied with the state of your hand he tosses the ripped cotton toward an open trashcan across the alley and presses a kiss into your damp hair. And chuckles. “Sweet and efficient Ianto Jones. Am I ever going to stop finding new and interesting layers under all those suits of yours?”

“Never,” you manage with tired conviction. 

“Good.” His hand is warm and welcome comfort at your back, soothing you down from the high with gentle touches. Despite the mist still falling lightly, neither of you are motivated yet to move.

When he laughs, it’s a surprise. 

“Now, about my fee...”


End file.
